At Sublevel 6, the corridors became narrower. Vault B7 proved to be behind a locked door at the end of the hall. The lock was electronic but dead. Wasn’t it connected to whatever power caused the floor vibrations?

  I wasn’t going to worry about it. I activated the baan and carved through the locking mechanism. This proved much easier than the blast doors.

  I walked in and after a quick search found ten items marked as shield generators in foam cradles, each buckle about the size of my two fists. They looked metallic with simple strap systems, designed to be worn like a belt. There was a small switch on each, probably the activator. The power indicator bars showed that none held a charge. That made sense after three centuries of sitting around.

  These were experimental models, prototypes. But they looked finished and professional. If they worked, they might save my Pterodactyl Riders from the dart rifles.

  I shrugged off my pack and opened it. There was too much stuff in here like extra pulse rifle power packs, the serrated knife, rations, water.

  I hefted a shield generator and noticed something in back I hadn’t seen. I picked it up, looked at the generator and snapped it in place. There was another slot—

  On inspiration, I picked up a pulse-rifle power cell and snapped it into place on this thing.

  A red light showed, and I heard a faint hum. I think I’d just started recharging the damn shield generator.

  I looked at my backpack, pulled out more stuff and then shoved in nine of the shield generators. I set the one in the recharger on the floor.

  Yes, this would take time, but having an active shield generator might be just what I needed to reach the supposed Dead Tower, the obelisk.

  While I waited—

  Instead of twiddling my thumbs, I would try to learn more about this research center.

  -40-

  I found a schematic regarding Sublevel 7, 8 and 9. There was the “BioGen Division, two floors, and Advanced Human Studies.

  I decided to leave my backpack and the recharging shield generator. Then I picked up my pulse rifle.

  I was curious to know more, thinking that Tellus might provide me with answers regarding the shattering of the Harmony of Planets.

  At Sublevel 7, the door had a biohazard symbol and a warning in the Tellus language:

  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—GENETIC MODIFICATION IN PROGRESS.

  The baan carved through the locking mechanism easily enough and I entered.

  Signs directed me through the level: Sample Storage, Genetic Modification Theater, Subject Recovery, and others.

  I entered Subject Recovery.

  The room was large, maybe forty feet across, and lined with cylindrical tanks. Each stood seven feet tall and was filled with cloudy liquid that had probably been clear once. Through the murk, I could see shapes suspended inside.

  They were bodies.

  Yeah, it felt creepy because it was.

  I approached the nearest tank, wiping grime from the viewing panel. A humanoid floated in the liquid, but the arms were too long, the legs too short, and the head misshapen. Tusks jutted from the lower jaw.

  I blinked several times. That was a Tog, or a Tog prototype.

  The computer had said genetic modification… did that mean Tellus scientists had created Togs as a human variant. If that were true, the Togs hadn’t evolved from extended radiation after the war…

  Oh, man, this was even freakier than I’d first realized.

  The next tank held something thinner, with too many joints in its elongated fingers. I’d seen mutants like this—the ones who’d beckoned to me from the lakeshore.

  Tank after tank showed variations. Some subjects were closer to baseline human. Others were true mutations.

  The scientists had been experimenting on their own people.

  I found a workstation at the far wall, its computer terminal dusty but intact. I pressed the power button, dusted off the seat and sat down as before.

  Files soon appeared. I started clicking through them, horrified and mesmerized all at once.

  Project Adaptus—Phase Three Results

  Subjects 47-62 show improved radiation resistance but decreased cognitive function by an average of 23%. Recommend refocusing on genetic markers associated with cellular repair mechanisms rather than direct radiation resistance.

  Subjects 63-78 demonstrate enhanced strength (avg. 47% increase) and heightened aggression responses. Unfortunately, these traits correlate with reduced lifespan (est. 30-40 years maximum) and severe social instability. My assessment was that they were unsuitable for long-term population integration.

  I kept reading, my jaw tightening. This seemed much different from the first computer station. It almost seemed as if the scientists down here had known the war was coming. Could they have been preparing for survival in a post-nuclear world?

  I found another file marked with possible red priority flags.

  Project Wayfarer—Maximum Classification

  I opened it.

  Theoretical framework confirmed via recovered Harmony-era records. Specific genetic combinations enable instantaneous translocation across interstellar distances. Individuals possessing these traits are designated “Travelers” in ancient texts.

  This was really crazy. They knew about Travelers. I read, absorbed.

  Primary objective: Replicate this capability through controlled genetic modification. Success would allow Tellus to explore other habitable worlds throughout the former Harmony territories.

  Secondary objective: Understanding Traveler genetics may provide insights into Anunnaki synthetic-mind technology and the mechanisms underlying the obelisk network.

  Oh, man, they’d been trying to create people like me. How would those of Tellus have found Harmony of Planets-era data, or had the Institute brought that to their attention?

  I scrolled through test results and genetic sequences. The complexity was staggering—thousands of specific markers that had to align perfectly. Subject after subject had failed. They tried a dozen different approaches, none successful.

  Then I found an entry near the end:

  Subject 203 shows unprecedented promise. Genetic sequence matches 73% of theoretical Traveler profile, the highest achievement to date. I request immediate approval for obelisk testing.

  Below that, stamped in red:

  REQUEST DENIED. Obelisk access is restricted by the Institute directive effective immediately. All Wayfarer research must cease. Continued work will result in sanctions.

  What did he mean by Institute directive?

  I stared at the words, then started digging deeper into the files. I found a communication log between someone called Director Harge and an off-world contact.

  Transmission Log—Classification Level Maximum

  Director Harge: We’re approaching viability. Subject 203 could achieve functional Traveler status within six months if we’re allowed to proceed with obelisk trials.

  [Response—Source: Institute Observer Station]: Your research constitutes an unacceptable risk to interstellar stability. The Harmony of Planets collapsed partly because Traveler capabilities became too widespread. We will not permit Tellus to repeat historical mistakes.

  Director Harge: This isn’t about power projection—it’s about survival. We’ve detected code corruption in our Synthetic Minds. We need evacuation capabilities.

  [Response]: The impending conflict is regrettable but necessary. Tellus has advanced too rapidly. Your synthetic mind technology and genetic capabilities represent a threat that cannot be tolerated by the interstellar community.

  Director Harge: Are you saying the Institute WANTS this war to happen?

  [Response]: This conversation is terminated. Wayfarer Project will cease immediately. Continued research will be met with severe countermeasures. This is your final warning.

  I sat back, my hands gripping the edge of the desk. If this was right, the dirty First Folk had wanted the Synthetic Mind assault to happen. By this, it seemed they thought Tellus was getting too advanced, too capable of challenging… what, Institute control?

  I kept searching through directories, my anger building. I found a folder marked Synthetic Mind Analysis—Critical Alert.

  Emergency Report to Planetary Leadership

  Our Synthetic Mind systems have exhibited increasingly erratic behavior. Comprehensive analysis reveals foreign code insertions, likely introduced during routine maintenance cycles via Institute-supplied system upgrades.

  The inserted code appears designed to generate progressively hostile responses to human interaction, particularly regarding military applications and defensive protocols. Left unchecked, this corruption will likely result in catastrophic system failures.

  URGENT RECOMMENDATION: Immediate quarantine and purge of all the Synthetic Mind systems. Yes, this will temporarily compromise military infrastructure, but the alternative is—

  RESPONSE FROM DEFENSE MINISTRY: Request denied. We cannot compromise defensive capabilities with external threats increasing. Continue monitoring but do not implement quarantine protocols.

  There it was. The Institute had poisoned the Synthetic Minds, turned them against their creators. The apocalyptic war that had destroyed Tellus—the nuclear exchanges, the three centuries of endless conflict, the millions dead—hadn’t been an accident.

  It had been murder. Planetary genocide, orchestrated by little hominids who’d possibly seen an emerging rival and decided to eliminate the threat.

  Had the Institute given Tellus the data to the Harmony of Planets and Synthetic Minds, and then gotten cold feet? Or had they discovered what the Tellans were doing and arrived as advisors just to sabotage a competing civilization? Either way, they’d engineered extinction.

  I sat back from the terminal, my hands shaking. Whether from the radiation or rage, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.

  An entire civilization—billions of people—wiped out not by natural disaster or accident, but by calculation. They hadn’t just killed soldiers or leaders. They’d murdered a world: men, women, children, with scientists trying to cure diseases, artists creating beauty and families sitting down to dinner. All of them burned, irradiated, or twisted into the mutants I’d been fighting.

  Three hundred years of war. Gorthak and his Togs weren’t some natural evolution of humanity adapting to radiation. They were descendants of victims, their genetics deliberately warped by Institute sabotage. The skinnies beckoning from the lakeshore, the Togs fighting their hopeless war generation after generation—all of it traceable back to foreign code insertions during “routine maintenance cycles.”

  I thought about Gorthak, giving me the Deep Waters even though his people desperately needed them. Trusting me because I carried a plasma-singer and killed machines. His children playing war games in the tunnels, growing up in darkness because the surface world had been stolen from them.

  I thought about Rhea, dying with a smoking hole in her chest because she’d distracted a walker to save me. She’d spent years trying to find a solution, trying to separate the war functions from the atmospheric scrubbers. Trying to save everyone.

  But there was no solution. The Institute had made sure of that. They’d designed the trap perfectly—fight the machines and die in battle, or destroy them and die from poisoned air. A perfect catch-22, engineered by creatures who prided themselves on their intelligence.

  “Bastards,” I whispered to the empty room. My fists clenched on the desk. “You clever little bastards.”

  And Earth? What would they do to Earth when humanity got too advanced, too capable? We were already working on AI, genetic engineering, space exploration—the same technologies that had made Tellus a threat.

  Would the Institute decide we needed to be “dealt with” too? Would they poison our systems, watch us tear ourselves apart, and record it all from hidden observation spheres? Would they justify it as “preventing another Harmony collapse” or “maintaining interstellar stability”?

  How many other worlds had they done this to? How many civilizations had reached for the stars only to have the Institute slap them down?

  I scrolled farther through the Wayfarer archives and found one final entry—a personal log from Director Harge.

  Subject 203 has fled via the obelisk. Our only success—73 percent match was apparently sufficient for translocation capability. I don’t know where he went. I hope it’s far from here and far from the Institute’s reach.

  The missiles are launching. Our Synthetic Minds have seized control of the defense network. Everything we feared is happening, and we’re powerless to stop it.

  If anyone finds this record: we tried. We tried desperately to save our people. The Institute prevented us at every turn.

  May whatever powers still govern this universe have mercy on—

  The log cut off mid-sentence.

  Subject 203. A Traveler. Somewhere in the galaxy, one of their kind had escaped before the fall.

  I stared at the screen, feeling a cold weight settle in my gut.

  The Homo habilis of the Institute—Livi had once called them the smartest of us all. Maybe she’d been right. Smart enough to destroy worlds they couldn’t control. Smart enough to hide it behind policies, research, and false benevolence.

  The Tsargol massacre? That had been nothing to them. Thousand dead—barely worth a footnote. This was their true scale: planetary extermination.

  My hands were shaking harder now. I wanted to put my fist through the computer screen, tear this facility apart with my bare hands. But that wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  What I needed to do was survive. Get off this dead world. Get back to Mu. Make sure Philip never got the chance to orchestrate another massacre—not on Mu, not on Earth, not anywhere.

  The Institute thought they were the smartest, the most evolved, the natural rulers of the former Harmony territories. They thought size and muscle made humans stupid, that our “dull” brains couldn’t match their cunning.

  They were about to learn different.

  I pushed back from the terminal and stood up, ignoring the dizziness from the radiation. The shield generators were in my pack. The baan was on my belt. And somewhere up above, Philip was probably waiting.

  It was time to show the First Folk what this “dull brute” could do.

  -41-

  On Sublevel 6, with the pack full and secured and my pulse rifle in hand, I headed for the stairs. It was time to find the obelisk, the Dead Tower as everyone called it, and get home to Mu.

  I was passing through Sublevel 4 when I heard a distinctive hum. I stopped and cocked my head.

  Yeah. That was teleportation in action, no doubt about it.

  Someone had just arrived, probably near the entrance. I had no doubt it was Philip and his First Folk goons. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn they’d tracked me here, maybe through the possible drone I’d spotted earlier.

  Now that I knew more about what had happened on Tellus 300 years ago, it made way more sense the Institute was back, observing from the shadows.

  I readied the pulse rifle and considered my options. The pack was heavy, slowing me down. Should I drop it for better mobility? No, the shields were the whole point of this mission.

  Then I noticed another stairwell to my left. It was marked “Emergency Exit.” The dust on the floor was undisturbed. Likely, nobody had used it in centuries. Maybe that was why I’d missed it before.

  Instead of charging into a firefight with multiple Institute operatives, I’d change it up. I’d outsmart the little bastards instead of trying to outfight them.

  I headed for the emergency stairs, moving as quietly as I could with the heavy pack. Let Philip and his team search the main route. By the time they figured out I wasn’t here, I’d be long gone.

  The emergency stairs were narrower and steeper, and the pack’s weight was making this tiring. But I kept going, driven by the sense of urgency I’d felt earlier.

  I heard the teleportation sounds again, stopping, wondering if Philip was getting cute. Did he use teleport devices to hop around and possibly cut me off?

  I knew one thing. Philip and the others would have phasors, having rearmed.

  I shrugged off the pack and pulled out the partially charged shield generator. Then I hooked up a second one, shoving it into the pack and shrugging it back on. The generator disc was cool as I threaded it into place.

  Once set, I flipped the activation switch. The little generator hummed to life, vibrating against me. Looking down, I could see a faint shimmer around my legs, like heat distortion but more regular.

  Hot damn, it worked. After three centuries, the thing actually functioned.

  I clicked it off to conserve power. Would the baan function through the shield? Could I fire weapons with it active? Maybe that’s why the devices had been experimental, as that would have been a problem then, and now, as well, come to think about it.

  I continued up, using every bit of Marine training to move as silently as I could. The Institute operatives were quiet as mice now. This was like being back in Bhutan, circling through mountain terrain to surprise guerrilla fighters. My squad and I had been ghosts in the Hindu Kush Mountains, as well as in the city.

  Then I heard soft footfalls and whispered commands in their monkey language.

  By that time, I’d reached the main level, and was looking around. I didn’t see them. To exit the vault, I had to cross through the computer room first. I crept forward, with the pulse rifle ready.

  Then Philip stepped out, flanked by two other clones, one looking much younger than him. All three had phasors aimed at my chest.

  “The game is up, Bayard,” Philip said. I’m guessing he was the one I’d been dealing with on Tellus. “Drop everything or I’ll burn you to oblivion. Surrender and you can live.”

  I laughed; I couldn’t help it, especially after reading what I had. “Surrender to you, you little prick? Who knows what you’d do to me? Try to insert something in my brain for all I know. Change my whole way of thinking.”

  “Would you rather die, Bayard?”